


Patrani

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Married Couple, Missing Scene, POV Female Character, Romantic Fluff, Sickfic, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Look, this is basically a relationship-building montage in fic form. I love the central, complex, tentative, tender relationship between Jodhaa Bai and Jalaluddin a lot, and I thought that we deserved to see more of Jodhaa's thoughts from the time of her sojourn in Amer to "In Lamhon Ke Daaman Mein." So... this is that. Featuring a certain amount of angst (inevitable), thoughts on early Mughal ceremony and centralization, romance, and absolutely shameless indulgence in exploring Jodhaa's emotions.
Relationships: Hamida Banu Begum & Jodhaa Bai, Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar/Mariam-uz-Zamani | Jodhaa Bai
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	Patrani

In her familiar chambers in Amer, Jodhaa has time to think. She finds that she has more of it than she would wish, even with the hours devoted to sword practice, even with the time listening to poetry, or sitting and talking with her mother, hearing the news of the palace.

Mercifully, her mother only asks about Jalaluddin once.

“Has he been unkind to you, beta?” asks the queen, her dark eyes anxious.

“No, mother.” It comes out almost in a whisper. Jodhaa wonders how to explain her husband, to whom ruthlessness and tenderness both come so easily. “He is a proud man,” she says, “and he believes himself wronged.”

Her mother sniffs. “Still, to turn out his wife in the middle of the night…”

“He thought I had betrayed him,” says Jodhaa sharply. “He has been too often betrayed.” Her mother sniffs again, but says nothing. 

Jodhaa thinks, later, that her perceptive, practical mother must have seen more than she realized; for when Jalal comes to admit his mistake, to ask for her return as his honored wife, he is welcomed into the citadel neither as an emperor owed tribute, nor as a shame-faced supplicant, but as a beloved son-in-law.

Long before the news from Hindustan allows her to return, the chambers in Amer have ceased to feel like home. Often she lies awake, thinking of the man who slept easily on the other side of a gauze curtain, who confronted her in her anger and met her as a fighter on even ground. 

At last, when pilgrims and merchants bring tales of the glory of Hindustan, its empress makes her preparations. Jodhaa is determined to return in the magnificence due to her own honor and her husband’s. But she is not quite sure what to expect of that husband, who has sat quietly with her in the gardens, who has come shy and barefoot to her chambers, who has refused to touch her without permission, and whose every look is an invitation and a challenge.

She arrives to find the streets thronged with people, and they rejoicing. She sends a messenger ahead to the palace, while her elephant makes its stately progress. She hopes… she is not sure what she hopes. When Jodhaa enters the courtyard of the fortress, it is to find her husband at the center of a festival. There are dancers in elaborate costume, silk-clad warriors, musicians with trumpets and drums; everywhere there is motion and color and noise; and he sits in perfect stillness. 

The people surge to meet her, cheering. Jodhaa keeps her expression still — she smiles, and bows, and shows nothing — but she wonders at this. What work had been done, to suppress rumor? To her still greater surprise, he rises to meet her, striding swiftly across the marbled floor, and out to greet her in the sight of all, not waiting for her to come and present her duty to him. His greeting, though, is no statesman’s; he tells her simply of his joy. And, strangely, it does not feel like humbling herself to tell him that he has won her heart. 

As the delegation awards him the title of _akbar_ , as alms are prepared in the emperor’s weight in gold, Jodhaa steals sidelong glances at Jalaluddin. He cannot be as calm as he seems. Surely he cannot accept, with no other reaction than simple happiness, that she returns from exile and self-imposed distance to stand at his side, his acknowledged equal? Surely it cannot be that easy? But as she places the magnificent scimitar on top of the heaped gold, he smiles at her — delighted and radiant — and she thinks that, perhaps, it could be.

Jodhaa knows, watching him at his ease atop a curveting horse, that she may never fully understand the man she has married, who has made her empress of all the kingdoms whose representatives crowd into the vast courtyard. But she thinks that she might grow to love him. She thinks that some part of her already does. Jodhaa watches him ride out, upright and beautiful, surrounded by the praises of his people; and she smiles.

* * *

When the messenger comes, she does not believe him. “The most noble emperor has been shot by an assassin.”

“But…” says Jodhaa. _But they love him. But he has won their hearts. But he rode out just as he was, without armor, because he trusted them._

“The man was arrested by the royal guard,” says the messenger apologetically. “He took poison before he could be questioned.” 

Jodhaa can hear the proof of what she is told in the noises from the rest of the zenana: the whispering of silks, the quick patter of sandals, the stifled cries of fear. She follows Hamida Banu Begum into the royal chambers. They are just in time to see the sober little procession of white-clad physicians, like a horrible echo of the day’s festivities, with Jalal lying far too still between them. 

The second thing that worries her is the presence of the ministers, drawn up in a phalanx at the foot of the bed. The physicians are moving swiftly; one takes the emperor’s pulses, while the other peels back the richly woven cloth that is soaked with too much blood. The wound is deep, pulsing, ugly, but it is also safely above his heart. The wound itself might not worry her so much, if it were not for the grim-faced courtiers. Their presence says that at any moment, the emperor might die, leaving them to make decisions for the future of Hindustan. Jodhaa moves closer to her mother-in-law, and leans against the older woman’s shoulder.

Jodhaa watches, transfixed, as the physicians clean the wound. She tries not to think about the fact that the emperor’s breath is coming too hard and too fast. She tries not to think about the way that he moves restlessly in pain, too far gone even to cry out. By the time the physicians have finished, packing up their bandages and their medicines and their pain-numbing drugs, it is night. Faithful Nimat tells the ministers to go, and they do, making their deep salaams before the still figure on the bed. Jodhaa wants to cry out; but she simply clings more closely to Hamida Banu Begum, who stands pale and tear-stained next to her.

“Most honored empress,” murmurs one of the physicians at her elbow, “there is nothing you can do now.”

 _That’s not true_ , thinks Jodhaa. _I could tell him I love him._

What she does is to follow Hamida Banu Begum back to the women’s quarters. The next day — she will not ask if the other woman slept — she kneels on a saffron-bright rug behind her mother-in-law, and they offer their silent prayers to different gods. Jodhaa does not think that the Lord Krishna will mind. She stays in the zenana that day, and listens to the cooing of the doves. She tells herself that all will be well, that all must be well. Outside the fort where the emperor lies ill are entire kingdoms brought together by his will and under his sway. He has made a mighty peace. Surely so much cannot be easily taken away. (But for all that, she cannot bring herself to eat more than a few morsels. Nimat takes pity on her, and takes handfuls of rice and fruit from the tray, so that the maidservants will not gossip.)

The day after that, she is sent for. Salima comes pelting through the courtyard to find her, silks billowing and eyes enormous. When Jodhaa arrives in the emperor’s chambers, she does not need Hamida Banu Begum to tell her that Jalaluddin’s condition has worsened. He lies absolutely still, his skin rank with the sweat of fever, while physicians work busily around him. A brass pestle chinks against its mortar, but what worries Jodhaa more is the physician who is desperately chafing the emperor’s wrist, trying to discover or improve his pulses.

Jodhaa runs. If he rouses to call for her, she will go, but she will not stand helplessly by to watch him die. She has no articulate prayer to bring before the Lord Krishna. She simply kneels before his shrine, and begs silently for the life of an unbeliever. _They prayed for his protection,_ she thinks; _they prayed for his everlasting life. There were Hindus there too, lord; his people are your devotees too, and they love him. As I do. As I do._

She remains there deep into the night. There is nowhere else for her to go, in this palace where she is suddenly very conscious of being a foreigner. She tries not to think about what will become of her, if she is left a widow without hope of a child. Not three days ago, she was hailed as empress of Hindustan, Jalaluddin as its great and beloved emperor, and now…

Dawn finds her still kneeling. She is sore, and cold, and thirsty, but she will not move. She will not move from the presence of the god who is changeless and all-knowing, the divine flute-player who knows the dance of love. Tearful and exhausted, she hears the news being called from mouth to mouth — the emperor has regained consciousness — and she knows that her prayer has been answered.

* * *

She expects to find him sitting up. As she goes to him, trying not to run, trying to move with the dignity befitting an empress, she imagines him pale and haggard but smiling, ready to welcome her, perhaps even to tease her a little. _Well, my Jodhaa, must I thank the Lord Krishna as well as Allah the All-Merciful?_

At first, she thinks that there has been some mistake, or that he has had some relapse in the time it has taken her to reach him. The body on the bed is curiously flat, horribly motionless. The physicians and attendants around him move; Jalaluddin does not. When she has come a little closer, though, she can see that his mother is smiling. Jodhaa finds herself choking back laughter, and struggling to hold back tears. She is empress of Hindustan and daughter of the Rajputs, and she must show courage worthy of both. 

“May his majesty live long,” says the chief physician. It is a declaration of professional pride. 

Jalaluddin turns his head on the pillow, and even that seems to cost him an effort. The well-wishes run around the circle of attendants, and the emperor of all Hindustan blinks slowly. It is Nimat who begins begins to spread the joyful and necessary lie, that the emperor is well again. This sends the servants scattering, and Jodhaa knows that after days of anxiety and rumor, this news will be through the streets of the city by noon.

Jodhaa grips her hands together, and tells herself not to cry. Hamida Banu Begum sits on the bed, and thanks Allah for his mercies, and tells her son to rest. Jodhaa comes to the conclusion that Jalaluddin does not see her; perhaps, after having been so close to death, he has not the strength to look for anyone beyond the woman who gave him life. She tells herself that this is just and right, and that they will have time enough, now. And then Jalal’s gaze travels over his mother’s shoulder, and he meets her eyes, and smiles.

In the ensuing days and weeks, he continues to surprise her. For one thing, he does not seem to question that she, who so long absented herself from his court, now chooses to be with him, exchanging the zenana for the sick-room. For another, this man of fierce pride does not resist or resent her ministrations. The physicians prescribe foods to quicken his blood and strengthen his pulse. From her hands he takes coconut milk with ginger, barley water, soups with chicken and turmeric, and all as meekly as a child, while watching her with startlingly intelligent green eyes.

In the mornings, Chughtai Khan and Todar Mal come to read reports, and Jalaluddin listens and approves. Gradually, they start asking occasional questions, which he simply answers with “As you think best.” When he first declares an imperial wish, Jodhaa catches Todar Mal wiping an invisible speck of dust from his eye. Jodhaa learns that, in the afternoons, Jalal will sleep, exhausted by the business of recovery. She finds herself irresistibly tempted by the opportunity to simply watch him, unobserved, and take relief in the steadiness of his breath, the gradually returning color to his face.

She learns that it is easiest to shave him first, and wash his hair when he is already tired from the effort of the former process. “Jodhaa,” he says, one evening, “you don’t have to…”

She does not say: _Who else do you think I would trust with a razor near your throat?_ She says: “Is it not right that a wife should serve her husband?”

One corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile. Jodhaa contemplates his inverted features, their normally stern lines softened. “Ah,” says Jalal, with laughter in his tone, “so you serve me as my demure wife.”

Jodhaa dips her fingers into the brass bowl, and flicks water against his cheek. “Say then that it is my privilege.”

He opens his eyes then, and musters her gravely for a moment. “No emperor… so honored,” he says, his voice slurring slightly with weariness. Jodhaa does not reply; she simply works her fingers through his hair in steady circles, and wakes him when it is time to rinse out the oil.

* * *

Jodhaa is not sure whether the court has decided that they are beyond the claims of custom, or whether they have been granted a temporary exemption from the rules of decorum while her husband convalesces. But on a night when thunder rolls over the fortress, and they sit in his bed, drinking haldi doodh, she decides that she does not care.

“I regret,” says Jalaluddin suddenly, “that you were not welcomed back to Hindustan as you deserved.”

Jodhaa glances sharply over at him. His gaze is on his knees and the mug of milk between them. She wishes that she had thought to ask the physicians about appropriate topics of conversation; surely they would have given her counsel. Jodhaa takes a risk. “Perhaps,” she suggests gently, “my lord’s memory has been affected by his long illness.” He looks up at her then, his eyes wide and solemn.

“I recall very well,” continues Jodhaa, “that I returned in splendor befitting the empress of Hindustan, and that I was welcomed by the people. And by you,” she adds more softly. “You said that my coming brought you happiness.” Her voice sounds almost childishly pleading in her own ears: _please remember. Please take joy in me._

Jalaluddin takes a deep breath, and the line of his shoulders drops. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I… yes.” He is silent for a few moments before adding, almost bashfully, “You should have been feasted. I wished to honor you at a feast.”

Jodhaa presses her lips together, and tells herself not to cry. “The prepared feast was given in alms to the poor,” she says, firmly reassuring.

“Ah. Good.” But he remains grave. Jodhaa wonders what has sobered him; and then she realizes. _Alms-giving._

“Your pardon,” she stammers. “Your pardon, lord.” _The assassin must have seen him_ , she thinks. _He must have seen him, distributing alms, munificent and beloved, and still… It had not been enough to aim for the heart; the arrow itself had not been enough, but had been deliberately dipped in the poison that had worked its way mercilessly through his blood, that had left him…_

“Jodhaa,” says her husband, and when she looks up, his eyes on her are soft. “It’s all right.” He reaches out for her, but stops when there are still a few inches of silk between them. Jodhaa covers his hand lightly with hers. She does not quite dare to interlace their fingers.

“I should return to the zenana,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

“Yes,” agrees Jalaluddin.

At last the day comes when the physicians agree that the great and mighty emperor of Hindustan, leader of battles, tamer of elephants, may be permitted to venture more than a few steps from his bed.

Jodhaa does not quite support him. She walks a decorous pace behind him, her hand at his elbow, and watches him with fear and love. As he turns his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the unaccustomed brightness, she breathes inarticulate prayers to Sūrya, to Aruná, and of course to Lord Krishna the all-beautiful, whose temple her husband had permitted to be built, who in his wisdom and his mercy saved the emperor’s life.

In the subsequent days, he dresses, and they walk together through the corridors and gardens of the palace. Murmured thanks for the emperor’s preservation, and prayers for his long life, follow them. And Jodhaa notices how Jalaluddin smiles and nods, gracious alike to servants and courtiers, and only allows fatigue to show in his face when they have returned to his chambers.

On a mild day, after he has heard petitions and received reports, they go together to sit in the gardens. They play Chaupar and cards, they speak and they are silent, and when the sky above the fortress begins to dim to pale turquoise, the sun hanging low over the battlements, they rise to go.

Jalaluddin half-stumbles in rising, and has staggered unsteadily sideways before Jodhaa can reach him. Having done so, she hangs on as if desperate, his forearms in her hands, awareness of propriety and her own indifference to it thrumming in her head, to the rhythm of her pulse.

“Jodhaa,” he says. “Jodhaa.” She never learns what was on his lips — apology or reassurance or teasing question — because when she looks up and finds him smiling at her, she bursts into tears.

She thinks that she should bring her veil to cover her face, at least; that she should recover her composure at a discreet distance; but when she drops her hands, it is the easiest thing in the world to step forwards, to let herself stand within the undemanding circle of his arms, close enough to be soothed by the beating of his heart.

“Jodhaa,” says the emperor again, very softly. She takes a deep breath, and dries her tears, and looks up to find that they are surrounded by a forgiving twilight that will hide her face from the curious. She takes another deep breath, and thinks that she should probably apologize.

“Will you do me the honor,” asks Jalaluddin, “of dining with me in my chambers?” And Jodhaa smiles up at him, and nods assent.

* * *

It seems strange, when he has returned to the business of state, to fall into a different pattern of days. Jodhaa finds that she is restless in the zenana, even listening to music or poetry, even sitting and telling riddles with Salima and Nimat, even playing with the rabbits. 

Sometimes, she joins Hamida Banu Begum in overlooking the audience chamber, looking out from behind the screen, just to assure herself that the emperor is well. It is a tangible relief every time that her eyes find him, upright and elegant and _safe._ Jodhaa wonders if anyone in the audience chamber — perhaps Todar Mal, or Chughtai Khan, who glowers so fiercely at all who approach the emperor’s seat — notices that Jalaluddin still tires easily. But sometimes she thinks that it is only she who notices when he leans on his right hand, the fingers slightly splayed; or when his face, despite his imperial serenity, is lined with strain. 

Jodhaa decides that she needs something to take her mind off the number of imperial supplicants who could, perhaps, be assassins. After all, there is Chughtai Khan. After all, there is the obvious proof that the emperor is beloved of Allah, miraculously saved from death. Jodhaa wonders if she might ask the Lord Krishna to strike any future assassins dead where they stand; but she thinks that, in his holy wisdom, he might decline such violence.

She decides to learn calligraphy. She sits with a patient scribe in a quiet room, and learns of the art that goes into creating strokes of ink that mean something, and that are beautiful in their own right. Jodhaa discovers that she cannot hold the brush too tightly, or in a hand that trembles. She must hold it lightly, and breathe lightly, and find the cadence of the unfamiliar letters in the patterns of ink on paper. Every line, explains the scribe, is a work of love.

At last, she is ready to have her work seen by the emperor. She sends for him, and he comes, clad in green silk, barefoot on the rich carpets. His pleasure is obvious and genuine; no less obvious is his surprise, that she should have thought to execute such a thing. He stammers out his praise, and Jodhaa thinks that it is a frightening thing, to love someone so much. 

His confession (not the one that she had, momentarily, hoped for) is that he cannot read or write. For a moment, she thinks he — the courtier and statesman — is teasing her. But then he raises his chin, and explains, not quite ashamed, and she finds that she loves him all the more for it. It still feels like a startlingly intimate thing that he is asking her to do, to shape the foreign syllables, to transgress, quite definitely, what is permitted to a dutiful wife.

“And if it is an order? Read it.” He speaks halfway between teasing and command, and Jodhaa shivers, and trembles as she explains.

“Look into my eyes, and read it.” This time, it is both command and caress, and Jodhaa obeys both.

“Jalaluddin Mohammed Akbar.”

When he breathes her own name in response, it feels like the completion of something, and like a new beginning. At his request, she follows him through the golden evening to a room that is like a jewel. She notices that he still holds his left arm a little stiffly. As he gazes out at the battlements, she has time to reflect that he has told her that green is the color of paradise, and red a color whose shades can be understood only by those with true wisdom. 

When, finally, he asks his question, Jodhaa’s first thought is to be surprised that her husband does not yet know — after all these days — that she loves him. And then she thinks that he has brought her to a room filled with the splendors of earth and heaven, where the sunlight turns to molten gold, and he gazes at her as though she is the only treasure of the world; so perhaps, after all, he does.

She goes to meet him in the center of the room, as he had come to meet her on her return from Amer. “Yes,” she says. She feels that she has been holding the answer back for a long time. Of course, he will not content himself with such a simple admission. And she looks at Jalaluddin, with his extravagant love and his fragile hope, and wonders at the days and nights that have brought them here. Jodhaa puts her hand in his.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have an elaborate headcanon for why Hamida Banu Begum and Jodhaa are so personally involved in the emperor's convalescence, which is: when you've arrested an assassin desperate enough to attempt to kill an emperor in broad daylight and then commit suicide before interrogation... you basically know that he's not working alone, and that he's potentially working for someone powerful. So who can be trusted? Very, very few people.
> 
> If I've made any mistakes in language or medicine (or something else that I wasn't even aware of missing!) please let me know. To judge by their clothing, the imperial physicians are trained in/practicing Islamic medicine, but I've explained their therapeutic practices from Jodhaa's perspective, presuming that she'd be more familiar with Ayurvedic theory. While the two systems had different underlying theories, the prescriptions in this case would have paralleled each other closely enough that I think it still makes reasonable sense.
> 
> The fact that Jodhaa and Jalaluddin play games is based on the fact that both Chaupar and card games are mentioned in the _Akbarnama_. Apparently, Akbar even invented new card game rules, which I find very endearing.


End file.
